


Profiling

by MidnightBlast



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: Canon - Book & Movie Combination, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Massage, Poker, Romance, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5049424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightBlast/pseuds/MidnightBlast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On paper, Christopher Beck was everything his family name suggested. Ivy Leaguer. Connecticut political family connections. Honorary military. Fulfilling a noble, patriotic legacy. </p>
<p>But he’d always been too much of a brilliant, tactile, adrenaline junkie for their tastes. </p>
<p>And the ARES III crew knows it all too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Profiling

Anyone who followed the society pages knew of the Beck family. The father, a prominent Washington senior advisor. The mother, a model Capitol Hill wife. The eldest child and only daughter, her star rising as a sage political analyst. The first son, on track for the Governorship of Connecticut. And the youngest, a decorated Air Force captain serving as flight surgeon on the high profile ARES III mission to Mars.

On paper, Christopher Beck was everything his family name suggested. Ivy Leaguer. Connecticut political family connections. Honorary military. Fulfilling a noble, patriotic legacy.

But he’d always been too much of a brilliant, tactile, adrenaline junkie for their tastes.

And the ARES III crew knows it all too well.

xxx

**“Of all my crewmates, the one I miss most right now is Beck. He’d fix my aching back. Though, he’d probably give me a bunch of shit about it.”**

Even the coolest of people carry their stress somewhere. No one can escape being human like that. Whether it’s the jaw, or the shoulders, or a telltale clenching of the hands – when the stress gets high enough, it finds a way to manifest.

He and Lewis find it quite accidently. After their first full day of egress training, she comes to him.  And it isn’t surprising. Egress training is a bitch. A day of rolling around, somersaulting and vaulting through Hermes, MDV and MAV mock-ups, learning the egress routes and timing movements from point A to point B. Of course, the same gravitational fields won’t be in effect, but drilling so fastidiously on the routes and motions will serve them well should they need it in space. But even Johanssen, the youngest of them all by at least seven years, readily admits that the day of floor routine gymnastics in space suits has been taxing.

Beck counts at least five bruises during his last shower, and honestly, he expected more of the crew to seek him out, if only for the ibuprofen. There are other medical staff looking after the crew during training but Lewis strongly encourages her crew to start coming to Beck with medical issues. The more he learns about their health and bodies on the ground, the better he can help them off-planet.

“Afternoon, Commander.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Beck.” She offers him a fleeting smile as she steps into the small exam room. “How did you fare yesterday?”

“Just some light bruising. Should be gone within the week.” She nods, stopping short with a well-disguised wince. But Beck knows pain when he sees it. “What can I help you with?”

“My right shoulder.” Lewis is always sure, to the point. “I landed hard in a roll yesterday, and I think it’s just bruised, but I want to make sure it’s nothing more serious.”

“Alright. Have a seat, and if you could please shrug off the top of your suit.” They are both dressed in matching blue, coverall suits, bedecked with their names and mission patches. Still the standard garb for astronauts in training.

With a quick, efficient movement, Lewis perches on the table and unzips the top half of her suit, revealing the gray tank she wears beneath. Stepping up behind her, with a gentle hand, he reaches out to feel along the muscle of her shoulder blade.

“There’s no sign of bruising, either surface or deep tissue. Does the muscle feel tight?” She turns her head towards him, another carefully measured wince wrinkling her face. Beck can’t help a good-natured smile. “That’s a pretty obvious yes. Where?”

“Along here.” The fingers of Lewis’ left hand reach over her right shoulder, running along the ridge of muscle there. Beck shifts his hand higher, applying just the smallest amount of pressure, his fingers catching on a hard, corded knot. He shifts his hand position, swiping his thumb over the same spot, digging into the knot ever so slightly. The gasp that tears from Lewis is startling. It’s a noise of surprise, of reaction to unplanned sensation – nothing like the calm, collected Commander they have all come to know.

He does it again, with his thumb over the same knot, for good measure. The result is the same. He allows himself another smirk, raising his left hand to her left shoulder. With a solid hold on her shoulders, he sinks his thumbs into the matching, hard knots. Lewis moans low, unbidden in her throat as the muscles tense and yield under Beck’s touch. Slowly, he works his strong, kneading fingers down and around her shoulder blades, stumbling across more knots set deep within the tissue. Forged by years of stress and managed accordingly. Her back starts to arch away from him as his thumb finds a particularly deep knot.

“Hey, relax, relax....” He coaxes warmly, pushing deeper into the tense tissue, feeling her ease back against his touch. “That’s it.” The knot loosens in a satisfying pop as Lewis sighs in relief.

“That already feels so much better.”

“I can imagine. In fact, I’m impressed you haven’t experienced discomfort sooner. These knots are something else.” He spreads his fingers out over her right shoulder blade, gently massaging the different muscle tissues. “Still no bruising, but you’re a rosy shade of pink.” His hands fall away as she starts rolling her neck and shrugging her shoulders. “Still better?”

“Still much better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, commander. If it bothers you again, let me know. It will take regular deep tissue therapy to fully clear those knots up. It’s not something I’ll require you to address, but you shouldn’t ignore it.”

“Thank you, Dr. Beck. I will take it under advisement.” She shrugs back into her suit with only a few more parting words that he returns. They both ignore the high flush on her cheeks. And neither will ever see her more relaxed, more unguarded than when she starts seeing him regularly. It’s a weakness she doesn’t want to broadcast and Beck never gives her away.

But somehow Watney finds out. Of course, he does. And he demands to know why Beck has been holding out on him. He goes into great detail about the tightness in the middle of his back, and if Beck presses a little harder with his thumbs for the sheer enjoyment of hearing Watney hiss, no one has to know.

 xxx

 

In general, Martinez always has something to say.  But when he’s playing cards, he never shuts up.

“So, my cousin barges in, demanding to know where his homerun baseball is, right? And his homerun baseball, man – his prize possession. Caught it in the nosebleeds at a Yankee’s game. Launched by one of the best league players in the history of ever—I’ll take one card—and the Yanks still won that game….”

Beck deals him the one card, taking two for himself.  He’s familiar with the tactic Martinez is employing. Using an endless stream of nonstop words to distract the opponent from his cards. Several of Beck’s frat fellows had followed the same practice.  Usually it was the more dimwitted ones.  He had only experienced a few players who wielded the tactic effectively.

But Martinez is far from dimwitted and no slouch at the poker table. He’s closing in on Beck at the top of the scoreboard. Not that they’re betting anything of value, really.

Ever since Lewis discovered Martinez, Watney and Beck making a habit of regular poker games on the Hermes, she forbade betting any items of value. She even made a running, written list to counteract Mark’s ever-growing list of loopholes. The big ticket items - tastiest food rations, shipboard assignments, anything, really, that could impact their abilities to perform their jobs safely – were off the table. And so it was that Mark ultimately found the solution.

_“Ok, fuck it, we’ll just have to bet space bucks. Recognized by all the great space legends – and, hey, that way if we run into Pizza the Hutt, we’re solid.”_

So a shared, master spreadsheet was created, bets entered and totals tracked.  It wasn’t nearly as much fun or satisfying as throwing chips across a table, though.

“I raise, 20.” Beck doesn’t even bother to wait for a pause in Martinez’s steam of stories.

“I see your 20 and raise another 30.” The spreadsheet updates with Martinez’s numbers.

“I call.” Beck unfurls his cards with a practice flick of the wrist. “Full house, queens high.”

“Three pair.” There’s a quick moment of silence as the spreadsheet is updated and cards are gathered. It’s Martinez’s turn to deal. And he does, offering the cards to Beck to cut, all the while spouting some story about his niece’s talent show.

This tactic hasn’t worked on Beck from the beginning and when Watney plays, he just matches Martinez word for word. It’s an endless stream of bullshit with the two of them at the table. Beck doesn’t mind so much. Sure, he’s used to mostly silent games, but he won’t give them the satisfaction of knowing that.

Another round of cards are dealt, bets made, cards swapped and the bets heap higher.

“I’ll raise. 50.” Nothing in Martinez’s voice betrays his eagerness.

“Someone’s confident.” Beck cracks a playful smile, reaching for his tablet to update his bet. “But I’ll take it and stay.”

“Ok, doc. Prepare yourself, ‘cause I got a nice flush for you.” The cards unfold from Martinez’s hand to reveal a hand of diamonds. Even Beck’s a tad impressed. But then it’s his turn. “Dammit, you bastard.” Beck’s smile is pure innocence as the four pair stare up at them.

“It’s just the luck of the draw. And you dealt the cards – you have no one to blame but yourself, dumbass.”

“But it’s your deck of cards. I say this whole game’s rigged.”

“Then why would I waste my time?” Beck shuffles the cards with practiced, fluid ease.

“Yes, why indeed - because I’m sure every game you played in your moneyed frat was 100% legit.”

“Don’t even—”

“If only we had a box of Cubans and primo brandy. Now, let’s see – of all the frats to choose from—.”

“Ok, ok.” Beck didn’t like talking about these things. It was always awkward. “Tell me more about your son and his dinosaurs.” The last card drops into the pile in front of Martinez as they each reach for their respective hands.

“Not a chance, doc. You’ve been dutifully ignoring me since game one, and if I’d known that this was the topic to put you on edge – I would have brought along google searches of your family stories.” Beck forces a relaxed smile.

“If you’re sure that’s how you want to play.”

“Just try and stop me.” Martinez matches with a shit-eating grin and the game is on.

While he scrambles to recall all the gossip fodder around the Beck family, the youngest Beck just keeps smiling and playing cards. It’s almost too easy.

A straight. Three pair. Straight flush. Full house. Flush. Another straight.

He comes out on top every time, every hand.

It takes Martinez eleven hands to know he’s being played. So he starts watching closer, ‘cause surely Beck’s cheating. He must be. There’s nothing in the swift motions of his dexterous fingers as they shuffle and deal that gives him away. But there’s this mischief lurking in the kid’s – yes, Martinez is only three years older, but blame Beck’s boyish face – kid’s eyes and in the corner of his lips, and Martinez resolves to wipe that look from his face the next time he wins a hand. Because he’ll have to win a hand, eventually. The law of averages says so. Because no one is that naturally lucky. Or brilliant.

Are they…?

xxx

**“Okay, from now on, sleep in Beck’s room. Beck can sleep with Johanssen.” Johanssen blushed and looked down awkwardly.**

**“So…,” Beck said, “you know about that?”**

**“You thought I didn’t?” Lewis said. “It’s a small ship.”**

**…**

**“Million-mile high club,” Martinez said. “Nice!”**

**Johanssen blushed deeper and buried her face in her hands.**

Beth’s cheeks are still burning. That had to be one of the most embarrassing moments ever. Actually, it was a top contender for the most embarrassing ever.  Being called out by the Commander so frankly and matter-of-fact. Of course, she was absolutely right. But dammit, they thought they had been discrete enough. It’s a little disappointing to know they weren’t as clever as they thought.

She shuffles against the stiff bunk, pulling the blanket closer.  The minty taste of toothpaste is dull on her tongue as she lays, listening to the familiar sounds of the ship, just waiting. Waiting for Chris to show up and crawl in bed. Officially. With full authorization.

She can’t help but smile at the thought as fireflies light in her stomach. Finding romance – finding him – was the last thing she expected when she joined the astronaut candidate program. But here they were and she couldn’t imagine so much time in the cold of space without this. It’s ironic, really, that Elizabeth Johanssen, the night owl who spent half her childhood alone, engrossed in the digital world, now finds herself so in want of another’s companionship in the one place she really can’t be more alone.

She perks up at the voices approaching outside the thin, plastic door. It’s impossible not to listen. Even over the whirr of the unbalanced ventilation fan.

“I envy you, man. You can get laid whenever you want now. Me? I gotta wait another 470 sols until I can get some. And then….,” Martinez trails off with what she can only imagine is an obscene gesture, “we’re not leaving the bedroom. At all. For days, if I have my way.”

“I’m sure your son will object to that.” Beck’s amused voice makes her smile.

“He’ll go stay with his aunt or his grandmother. Anywhere but with us. Now, don’t have too much fun. These doors are too thin, and I don’t want to be reminded of what I can’t have, unless you’re gonna make room for me, too.”

“Get outta here.” Beck laughs and she can easily picture his smile. "The bunk’s barely big enough for you by yourself, so we’ll pass. Sleep well.”

“Thanks, doc. You, too.  And you, too, Johanssen!” The latent heat in her cheeks flares to life as she bites her lip, debating calling out a response. But blessedly, the moment passes and Chris opens the door to her quarters to reveal just his silhouette, bulky from his sweatpants and sweater, before the room returns to relative darkness.  There are always blue and green glowing lights from the control panel, but she barely notices them anymore.

“You look cozy.” His voice is soft, warm. She does her best to effect a nonchalant shrug.

“Could be cozier.”

“I can help with that.” And that’s Chris Beck in a nutshell. Always willing to lend a friendly hand, to help make something better, to diagnose and solve the problem. He angles over her, deftly fitting into the tight space between the bunk and the bulkhead. She relinquishes the covers as he slides underneath, shivering at the burst of cool air he brings with him. Lewis drops the ship’s temperature at “night” to give the heaters a bit of a reprieve. But in no time, she’s wrapped up in Beck’s arms, his body pressed tight against hers. She fits against him so perfectly and, dammit, if he doesn’t have the fluffiest sweaters.  It’s something she’s never understood – they were issued the exact same set of clothing, yet every sweater/hoodie/pullover that Chris wears is infinitely fuzzier and fluffier than anything she has.

They settle into a comfortable silence as they lay together, just holding and being held. It means so much more right now, so far from home. His lips brush the side of her neck in feather light kisses.  She can’t help the sparks that ignite in her blood at the promise of more as his fingers lazily circle across her stomach.

“You were really cute, earlier. At the briefing. I didn’t know your cheeks could turn so red.” Her cheeks flame on his words, shifting against him out of sheer embarrassment.

“Cute? God, it felt like getting caught in bed with your boyfriend by your mom…in front of the rest of the family.” His chuckle is low and slow.

“And you know that feeling from experience?”

“No…no, my first boyfriend was in college. And I never took him home.”

“Can I take you home when we get back to Earth?” It’s a very innocent question that speaks volumes, and she finds her throat going dry over the implications. The introvert in her wants to shutdown and process the information, but she forces herself to be in the moment, to accept that maybe that’s all that’s driving his words.

“I’d like that.” She’s not lying. In fact, she rather hopes it does happen....and the more she turns the idea over in her mind, the more exciting it becomes. “You know, I never said thank you. For catching the resupply probe. I…I…” the words _I love you_ hang heavy in her throat, “I didn’t want to have to eat you.” His hand finds hers in the darkness, interlacing her fingers and squeezing.

“I love you, too.” She startles, her eyes wide open, unable to believe what she just heard. She cranes her neck to attempt to look over her shoulder at him. He’s smiling lazily, the content smile of a man who has everything he wants and not a care in the world. She’s never uttered the words before, but she’ll be damned if anything stops her now.

“I love you, too.” He surges forward, pressing up on a forearm to lean over her, kissing her soundly.  She’s all too eager to meet him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders.  She pulls him over her as she rolls onto her back, and he can’t get her close enough. Kisses deepen in a rhythm of desire and realized love, as hips start to move together.

“God, I love you. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of saying it.” He kisses down her neck, punctuated with light nips and soft brushes.

“Good.” She gasps as his hand settles to her breast. “I don’t want you to.” Her fingers thread through his thick hair, pulling him back up to her lips, moaning into his mouth as his hardness rolls against her damp core.

“Mmmm, and for the record,” he nips her nose, his voice husky and dreamy, “I didn’t want you to eat me, either.” He nips her earlobe, drawing it teasingly between his lips. “But I would love to eat you out right now.” Her brain short circuits as her body all but screams ‘yes’. God, he shouldn’t be allowed to say such things. If there was a life-threatening emergency, she doesn’t know how she could get her head back without getting off first.

She can’t form words, but kisses him with the full force of her desire, her love, her answer. He drifts down her body and she knows keeping quiet will be a challenge. All she wants to do is abandon herself to him and shout out her love for this man.

And now that she’s found him, she’s never going to let him go.

xxx

It’s early. Too early, most would say. But in the military and NASA, it's routine. Vogel doesn’t quite look awake yet even though they’ve been up since 0400 hrs. But now it’s almost 0800 hrs and time for breakfast at the briefing. There’s always plenty of coffee and bagels available at the Neutral Buoyancy Lab (NBL) pre-dive briefings. It’s the last chance everyone has to fuel up before the 6 hour dive commences.It’s the seventh EVA dive that Beck and Vogel have done in support of the ARES III Mission. He’s not sure how many he did prior to being selected for the mission, but he has five more to go as mission EVA specialist.  He wishes there were more on his roster.

Even though NASA prides itself on safety and each astronaut is accompanied by two safety divers ready to extract them from the 40 ft. deep pool at a moment’s notice, something can always happen. And Beck knows what pressure can do to the human body. He enjoys playing with it, actually. Given his height, there’s a 2.93 psi differential from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head when he’s in the pool at any given moment. It’s not overly noticeable until he’s suspended approximately 10 ft. above the bottom of the pool.  But then, he raises his hand above his head and can barely clench the well-fitted glove into a tight fist (something he can do without thinking on the surface). Yes, he knows it makes the test coordinator’s job more difficult to keep his suit pressure regulated, but, well. He’s always been one for pushing limits.

Personally, he blames “The Right Stuff”. If he’d had his way at the age of 10, he’d be strapped in the X-1, rocketing through the skies, breaking the sound barrier all day long. He remembers the day his teacher told him that piloting the X-1 wasn’t an option for him. That breaking the sound barrier wasn’t exciting anymore.  He abandoned every thought he ever had about becoming a pilot in absolute pre-teen fury. Though, clearly some subliminal message stuck because he still wound up in the Air Force.

The bagel is heavy in his mouth as he chews absently, listening to the safety briefing. The topics they cover are familiar. What to do if you lose air. What to do if you tear your suit and water starts spraying in. The procedure for hyperbaric chamber entry and exit. What to do if grit or oil ignites in the nitrox breathing mixture. It’s the same information every time. Just another day at the office. And Beck loves every minute of it.

The first time he suited up, though, was awkward.  Well, honestly, it’s awkward for everyone. When you start with the MAG – it’s not a diaper, for chrissakes – and work up through the thermal underclothes, followed by the full-body, liquid cooling mesh-tube garments, there’s no such thing as modesty or dignity left. Then, undress and repeat at least 12 more times.

But that doesn’t even include the suit itself. The one thing that keeps the water out and the air in. The one thing that separates him from the vacuum of space. If the suit fitting at the NBL fails, then that’s it. Beck has personally witnessed the disqualification of two astronaut candidates just from failing the suit fit-check inspection. And it’s a damn good reason, in his professional opinion. That’s the EVA specialist talking. If someone can’t reach all of their chest-mounted controls fighting against a 4.3 psi differential in space, then it’s a double safety hazard.

Vogel sniggers quietly beside him.

_“Safety divers, maintain adequate distance to allow the camera divers close inspection of the astronauts’ activities. There are four planned translations to accompany the repair, so maintain your situational awareness with respect to the cameras.”_

Beck has to agree with Vogel that this part is always amusing. Putting posterity before safety. It seems so anti-NASA. But the go/no-go callout that follows is so classic NASA that the twelve-year old who fell in love with “Apollo 13” inside him still gets giddy. He perks up as his station is called.

_“EV1.”_

“Go.” He doesn’t hesitate. There’s no need. He just needs one last swig of water.

The final station call is set and the dive is green lit. Vogel drains the rest of his coffee and stands with a soft groan, rolling his shoulders against the mesh, tubing and padding. He glances down at Beck, his usually stoic countenance giving way to hints of mild disgust and amusement.

“At first, I thought it was just the beginning of mission excitement for you. But no…you’re, you’re still loving this, aren’t you?” Beck cracks a small, wry grin at the disbelief in Vogel’s voice. He rises to his feet, the blue-paper surgical booties on his feet crinkling.

“Yeah, what can I say,” he errantly shrugs, “I love this shit.” Vogel cracks a rare smile and nods. There’s still a slight edge of disbelief, maybe even sympathy to it. Beck claps hand to Vogel’s arm in support and companionship. “See ya down there.”

He files out of the briefing room, hearing Vogel fall into step behind him. The suit engineers are standing at the ready with the bottom half of the suit as the upper half rests affixed to its metal frame on the jib crane. It’s time to suit up and descend in the water where any number of things can happen.

But honestly, the worst thing that happens is when his nose starts to itch.

xxx

**“Visual on Watney!” he reported.**

**“Visual on Beck!” Watney reported.**

**“How ya doin’, man?” Beck said, pulling himself into the ship.**

**“I…I just…” Watney said. “Give me a minute. You’re the first person I’ve seen in eighteen months.”**

The world slowly comes into focus. Everything’s all hazy. Details are hard to remember. He was…where exactly was he, again?

_The Hermes. I made it. I_ fucking _made it!_

A low, deep, almost snore sounds. Did he make that noise? Couldn’t be, cause he’s awake. With much effort – when your head feels like a bowling ball, it takes effort. But turning against the pillow has paid off. He might even be smiling at the sight. The drugs make it hard to know for certain.

But there is he – the good doctor, half-reclined, half-sitting in what has to be the most plastic chair onboard. A tablet lays forgotten in his lap, a hand resting close by it. Probably reading some god-awful journal when he passed out. Watney can’t blame him. He’d have passed out, too.

Beck may look miserably uncomfortable but all Watney feels is relief.

He is no longer alone. The miracle of miracles, brought to him by science.

Time doesn’t exist right now. Watney has no idea how long he lays there, just starting at Beck sleeping.  It’s uncharacteristically ungraceful for Beck, being in that position. The doc’s usually so well put-together and self-sure. But the boyish innocence that surfaces in this abandonment of consciousness ages him down by at least a decade. And…ow.

Watney can’t move his head. The muscles just seem frozen. Is it the drugs again? It’s starting to hurt, though…quite a lot, actually. But he’s suffered far worse recently, and he doesn’t even know he has ribs thanks to whatever Beck stuck in his IV. Small mercies. At least, the view is amusing.

A low groan rumbles in the space.

_Space, ha. No sounds rumble in space._

Bleary gray eyes open to small slits as Beck shifts again, his lips lifting in a small smile at the sight of his patient.

“Hey, buddy.” His words are low and rough with sleep. Joints creek and muscles pop as he moves in the chair, easing the pressure off his spine. He runs a hand across his face as if to wipe away the sleepiness. Watney can’t tell if it works. And he doesn’t care. Beck’s just beautiful, solid proof that this isn’t a dream.

He isn’t alone.

Beck moves for the bed, scanning the monitors in the bulkhead. “Good to see you’re awake. How’re ya feeling?” He reaches for Watney’s hand, gently seeking out the steady pulse on his wrist. Watney’s pretty sure he’s smiling now.

“M’head feels…fat…to move.” Beck’s smile widens as he huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Sounds about right. And your ribs?”

“Wha’ ribs?” He tries to loll his head against the pillow, but fails. Beck takes the hint and suddenly warm fingers – how so warm? – fall to his cheek, softly pushing to turn his vision back to the ceiling. “Tha’s…good.”

“Good. You should really go back to sleep.”

“Wha’bout you?”

“And risk missing a single moment?” Beck’s face scrunches in disbelief. “How else am I going to write my next award winning journal piece if I don’t record every detail?” Watney looks as if he’s still trying to process this information. “And I get exclusive access, alright? Don’t you dare take your post-Mars body anywhere else.”

“’Hen I ge’clusive royalties.”

“It’s for a medical journal, man. There are no royalties.”

“Liar.” Watney knows he’s smiling now. He can’t not with Beck looking at him like that. Beck’s always been good with people. It’s probably why he’s a doctor.

“We’ll negotiate the terms when you wake back up. But for now, sleep. We’re not going anywhere, I promise.” He’s still holding Watney’s hand and gives it a light, reassuring squeeze.

It’s all too easy to let his heavy eyelids close. Feels better this way.

But Beck’s hand, solidly in his own, feels better.

**Author's Note:**

> Just something from my head, and I'm not medically or astronautically trained. :) Thanks for reading! Anything you recognize, like book quotes & photos = not mine, just borrowed as inspiration.


End file.
